


Birds Of A Feather

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fixing the broken cabinet seems like an impossible task for Draco until he gets some unexpected help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds Of A Feather

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The Potterverse is JKR's, not mine. This story was written for fun, not profit.  
> **Warnings:** AU (and written before DH came out). Angst. Sexual situations (Draco and Tom are about 17). Mention of character deaths. Also, this is not a redemption story, just so you know.

Draco casts his eyes upwards, sighs deeply and bites his bottom lip in aggravation. Despite his best efforts, that stupid, _stupid_ cabinet still refuses to cooperate, and now he has gone and hurt himself again, too.

He's starting to realise that he'll never be able to manage this, not with the constant pressure of those terrible threats hanging over his head. The lives of his parents are forfeited if he fails this assignment, if he proves himself unworthy.

But how can he even succeed with a pair of hands that are shaking and now bleeding, too? 

Tiny drops of blood fall onto the pinewood floor, leaving crimson speckles. Just as well, he thinks, that this room changes every time someone new comes in and that it changes into anything you require it to be. 

He takes a deep breath because he feels like crying again, but he can't; he shan't; he _won't_. He has no time for tears.

Instead, he tries to focus on his anger and hate. They're all he has left to sustain him, to keep him going; or at least, he hopes they will.

He hates Potter with the passion of a raging inferno, because everything that happened, the fact that things spiralled this badly out of control, that's really all Potter's fault… 

If Potter hadn't intervened, Father wouldn't have been arrested and there would be no need for all this. No need at all. Someone else would have taken care of these horrible assignments. Father would have seen to that.

Draco uses his right hand to wipe his clammy forehead and pearls of sweat and blood mingle. He shakes his head in defeat. This is _useless_. He might as well call it a day and try again the following morning, if he sees an opportunity to sneak away.

He gets up gingerly, feeling slightly dizzy and extremely disappointed. He almost jumps up in shock when he suddenly hears an even voice behind him say, "You'll never fix it that way, you realise, Malfoy."

Draco whips around. "Who the hell are you?" he snaps at the tall, dark-haired boy. He looks about seventeen and is wearing a Slytherin uniform. "I've never seen you around before. Tell me, are you supposed to be in my House? And how do you know my name?"

"No need to get all defensive," comes the calm response. "I'm merely someone who might be able to help you." 

"Oh?" Draco raises a sceptical eyebrow. "How?"

"I used to work for them, you see."

"What are you talking about? Work for whom?"

"Borgin and Burkes."

"Oh?" Draco gulps. "You did?"

"Indeed." The boy takes a few steps closer. "Not to mention that we appear to share a common enemy as well, you and I."

"Oh?" It dawns on Draco that he isn't being terribly eloquent. In fact, he's making a rather foolish impression on a fellow Housemate, and that just won't do, regardless of the unusual circumstances of this meeting, so he rapidly adds, "And who might that be?"

The words are spat out with disdain: "Harry Potter."

"Ah.." Draco smirks. "Right. _Potter_."

"Quite. So, what do you say?"

"Well." Draco crosses his arms. "My decision might be made easier if I knew your name, if I had some idea of whom I'm dealing with."

"Very well," the young man says. "My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Draco swallows hard, suddenly feeling dizzy again and quite terrified. No wonder then, that this young man knows Draco's name, and probably everything else there is to know about him, too. Why did Draco have to go and run his mouth off like that anyway? Will he never learn? "But-but- My Lord," he stammers quickly, hoping to repair any damage his earlier insolence may have done, "you look nothing like—I mean, when we met last summer, you…"

"Oh, you must be mistaken, Draco. You and I have never met." He eyes him up and down with obvious approval. "I would have definitely remembered otherwise."

"I, er…" Draco gulps, temporarily lost for words. So there are two Dark Lords, or is this one just an impostor? And why is he looking at him like that? Draco feels faint, like he's about to pass out. He thinks that this must be due to his confusion, exhaustion and the blood loss—well, perhaps not so much the blood loss. 

He's vaguely aware of unexpectedly strong arms grabbing him just as he sinks down to the floor.

*****

  
He's been here for four years, he says. He's been hiding out in the castle, roaming the corridors, not quite a ghost and not yet human, but definitely tangible and alive.

Potter didn't vanquish him completely by destroying that diary. Riddle discovered a way to stick around, a loophole, and Draco finds himself thinking that such is hardly surprising. After all, you can only successfully bumble yourself through life for so long. Sooner or later, Potter was bound to screw up. Royally.

"I've been observing the students, looking for someone worthy," Riddle says, and Draco supposes he ought to feel flattered, and he does, in a way, but he's mostly tired—incredibly tired, and the fatigue has cast a dark, ominous cloud over everything.

"You have to rest," the young Dark Lord says, as though he can read Draco's mind. Perhaps he can. "Meanwhile, I'll repair that blasted cabinet for you."

Draco nods slowly, barely believing his own ears. He's sure he must be dreaming, or hallucinating, or maybe—if he's lucky—he's already dead. 

*****

  
"Everything has been taken care of," Tom announces on what Draco guesses to be the fifth day of his convalescence. "The old man's dead."

"D-Dumbledore?" Draco swallows hard. "But how? How did you manage to-"

Tom smirks. "Polyjuice Potion is a wonderful thing, Draco. No one noticed it wasn't you. I did have to Stupefy and Obliviate a teacher, however. Not a clue what he was even doing there, but he had a very strong magical aura, seemed more powerful than most, so I thought it best not to take any unnecessary risks."

Draco lets out a deep, shaky breath. "Thank you," he says, and after a few moments he asks, with just a hint of suspicion tingeing his voice, "But why did you—I mean, what do you get out of all this, helping me?"

"Well, for one thing," Tom replies, "I gain an intelligent, like-minded companion, and once Potter and his gang of merry men have finished their perilous quest, it's our turn."

"Our turn?" Draco frowns. "Do you honestly believe Potter will win from the Da-I mean, the other Dark Lord?"

"Yes," Tom replies flatly. "But he won't beat me. And you know, Draco, I'd really prefer it if you were to call me Tom. That is my given name, after all."

"Yes, but…" Draco hesitates. "I've always been told you despise that name."

"As a general rule, yes," he says, and adds with a smirk, "But from your lips, I expect it might sound rather exquisite."

Draco looks away, blushing.

*****

During the months that follow, Hogwarts is turned into a safe house for refugees and wounded, as outside the second war rages on fiercely.

It's a mere detail for the two young men biding their time in the dungeons.

Draco is already feeling much better and getting stronger by the day. He finds Tom rather fascinating to talk to, and when the young man starts to teach him some of the finer points of the Dark Arts, Draco proves himself an eager and talented student with plenty of respect and admiration for his mentor.

It doesn't take Draco long to realise, however, that his feelings go beyond mere admiration, and that thought is more than a little daunting.

He has never given romance a lot of thought. He was always expected to marry Pansy and he was willing to go along with his family's wishes, though he felt nothing for her, but now that he has met Tom—

Draco expected that Riddle would one day attempt to seduce him, but so far he hasn't and it doesn't look like he will.

Draco wonders what he did wrong to make Tom change his mind. 

*****

Draco walks into the room and finds Tom standing in front of the fireplace, his arms crossed as he stares into the flames. 

"Can't sleep either?" Draco asks him, his tone curious and mildly concerned.

Tom turns around and grins. "This is no time to sleep, Draco," he says. "The two of us should be celebrating. He's getting weaker and weaker, you know."

"The other Dar—" Draco coughs nervously. "You mean _Him_? How do you—"

Tom simply shrugs. "I do own a part of his soul, if you recall."

"Oh." Draco frowns. He neither pretends to understand how this works or how it's even possible, nor does he ask for any clarification. Maybe some day, at an undetermined time in the future, he will, but right now the silence is pleasant, almost comforting, and the fire is warm and bright, and Tom…

Tom is looking at him questioningly, expectantly even, and Draco is almost afraid to hold his piercing gaze.

_Almost._

That night, for some reason, Draco is feeling exceptionally brave and adventurous, and he wonders whether it's the warm glow from the fire or the heat of the moment, but he soon decides that either way, it doesn't matter. 

He takes a few swift steps forward and kisses Tom on the lips—briefly, carefully—and then quickly pulls back again, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

"Well," Tom says, looking quite smug as he places his hands on Draco's shoulders. "What on earth took you so long?"

"I-I wasn't sure whether you were interested," he answers, slightly stunned at his own honesty.

"I've been interested ever since I first laid eyes on you, Draco. I just wanted to make certain that you were ready for any kind of intimacy."

"Oh." 

Feeling mildly awkward because Tom can clearly tell his inexperience, Draco stares down at the floor, but Tom tilts up his chin, forcing him to look up into questioning green eyes. 

"So, Draco, _are_ you… ready?"

Draco nods slowly, and Tom grabs him by the arms and pulls him closer. 

Draco is already seventeen and it's only his first proper kiss, but he thinks it has been more than worth the wait. 

*****

Later that week, Tom takes him to bed.

Draco hasn't a clue what to do, and it's embarrassing, really, how green he still is, but Tom doesn't mind taking charge. 

He's gentler than Draco expected and even more exciting than he thought he would be.

He carefully unbuttons Draco's shirt, slowly kisses a trail down the boy's torso and unfastens his trousers, before he looks up and asks with a devilish grin, "So, what would you like to do first?" 

Draco's lost for words. There are so many things he has considered, fantasized about, but he hasn't a clue how to express any of them in a manner that wouldn't come across as vulgar or juvenile or _needy_, and he's left feeling far too vulnerable, though it doesn't make him want this any less. 

"Anything," he answers at last. 

"All right." With an almost predatory smirk, Tom whispers huskily, "You'll like this, I promise."

A few minutes later, Draco throws his head back and tangles his fingers in thick dark hair while Tom's tongue and mouth work a special kind of magic on his cock, and Draco's last coherent thought is that _like_ doesn't even begin to describe it.

A long time afterwards, their passion spent, for now, Tom holds Draco close and asks him to stay. 

It would be an understatement to say that Draco is surprised. He didn't expect any kind of affection, not from someone like Tom Riddle, but then he hasn't known what to expect from anyone or anything for quite a while now. 

He closes his eyes and for the first time in ages, he feels like he can breathe.

*****

Tom doesn't need to wait for news. He knows when the elder Voldemort has been defeated. He seems to sense it automatically the very minute that it happens. 

He also knows exactly when to strike, and when he does, he's unrelenting and ferocious.

His first great moment of triumph occurs during the grand victory celebration the Ministry throws at Hogwarts. 

Everyone seems to be in a state of euphoria that night—carefree and careless. Including Harry Potter. The final battle left him bereft of some of his magic; of quite a bit of it, in fact. It seems the powers he'd received from Voldemort were taken from him in the very same moment the Dark Lord gasped out his final breath.

It's a most convenient development for some, because it means that Potter no longer stands a single chance, not against Riddle, not even against Malfoy, who was presumed missing for months, but has clearly returned with a vengeance.

At the end of a horror-filled night, Potter is thoroughly Obliviated and whisked away. 

They drop him off at some Muggle relative at the other side of the country.

Soon the chubby woman no longer has any recollection of the past seventeen years. As far as she's concerned, the boy is her son, and she'll take care of him as well as she can.

Tom and Draco agree that for Harry Potter this is a fate worse than death, and one that won't turn the hero into a martyr for what just became a doomed cause.

*****

  
Even though Draco's assignments were completed to Voldemort's satisfaction, Lucius and Narcissa didn't survive the war. 

They were brutally murdered during some Ministry raid. It was never discovered who was responsible, exactly, but Draco has his suspicions. 

He's heard whispers that the questionable honour befell Bellatrix Lestrange, although those rumours were never confirmed, and she's no longer around to be interrogated. 

She was the first Death Eater Tom killed, though by no means the last, until the remaining ones surrendered and finally recognised him as their new leader. 

*****

Two years have passed. Draco mourns less and less, and his nightmares have long ended.

He's rather content these days, staying at Malfoy Manor with his brilliant, handsome lover who has stepped up to become the new Dark Lord, and who has built an army that rivals and even surpasses his predecessor's.

Draco assumes the Aurors must be kicking themselves, for they never saw this coming, the few of them who are still alive and relatively sane. And of course they no longer have Potter or Dumbledore to rely on. How wretchedly unfortunate.

Draco knows it won't be long now.

"This time tomorrow," Tom says, a smug look on his face, "we'll have the whole world at our feet, wizards and Muggles."

Draco looks at him, the man he loves, the most powerful wizard history has ever known, and he smiles, while somewhere at the back of his mind, a wry realisation starts to form, and an inner voice silences another worry, closes another door as the one to the future opens - 

Father would have been so proud.

 


End file.
